


Pour Me A Drink, And I'll Tell You Some Lies

by BourbonOnTheRocks



Series: Cold Showers Lead To Crack [2]
Category: Good Girls (TV)
Genre: Beth's bourbon glass POV, Extremely Vague Timeline Because It's A Fucking Glass, F/M, Harry Potter Allusions, I don't even know what to tag at this point, I have an academic background in material sciences and I think it shows, Implied Kitchen Island Sex, Love Triangle, Not Much Happens Though, Other, Unrequited Love, crackfic, innuendos, no dialogues, some Beth and Rio through a mineral eye, someone has an EGO and for once it's not Beth or Rio
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-09
Updated: 2020-11-09
Packaged: 2021-03-09 02:02:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,215
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27476977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BourbonOnTheRocks/pseuds/BourbonOnTheRocks
Summary: The mostly self-centred, frankly conservative, mildly obnoxious, and slightly megalomaniac POV of Beth's bourbon glass throughout the show...
Relationships: Beth Boland/Her Bourbon Glass, Beth Boland/Rio
Series: Cold Showers Lead To Crack [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2007736
Comments: 22
Kudos: 32





	Pour Me A Drink, And I'll Tell You Some Lies

**Author's Note:**

  * For [s_t_c_s](https://archiveofourown.org/users/s_t_c_s/gifts).



> Because that's what she gets for [encouraging me](https://bourbon-ontherocks.tumblr.com/post/633973131474845696) in my deviant tendencies.

In the beginning was the heat and that's pretty much all he remembers. Sometimes he catches reminiscent flashes of when he was basically just a hive mind, disassembled into the multitude of a handful of sand. But that's probably the whimsical dream of a being with a unified structure.

So.

Gathering thoughts when you don't have a central brain but only phononic whispers is hard. Where was he... Right. The heat. The phenomenal temperature of the ovens, combined with the monumental thunder of the press, an insane Vulcanian forge, that's the setting of his birth. No wonder everything that has happened to him ever since has felt tepid and weak. He comes from a mineral hell no mortal could handle, theatrics worthy of the Greek gods themselves, a material transformation as old as Mother Earth.

He remembers how it felt, to be liquid, the unhinged exultation coming from it. Viscous is the best state anything or anyone could experience. The freedom to spread shamelessly in every direction, gravity as his unique master! The power born from the knowledge of his own harmfulness, a sizzling lava prompt to burn the organic unfortunate happening to be on his way. Too bad that this mould was so _restraining_! The life he could have lived otherwise... Nobody could survive him by then, even humans.

Until he cooled down...

That's when the tables turned and he became vulnerable. At the mercy of their tiny and flabby hands, their repulsive fingers wrapped around him like a vulgar octopus. Drop him once and this round and flawless perfection he's so proud of will be gone forever. Of course there's this rumour going among his pairs, passed to one another from generation to generation. That if you behave, be a good glass, then maybe you'll make it to the heaven of Re-Cycle when you break, get the chance to go back to the forge and be born again. A peaceful circle of mineral life.

He doesn't like to think about what happens to the glasses who _don't_ behave.

He can't complain about his adopter though. After having spent excruciating months enclosed with five of his pairs in the pedestrian darkness of a cardboard package — please, _organic_ fibres derived from wood, what a humiliating low! — where absolutely nothing interesting happened, he remembers spending equally painful months on that illuminated glassy shelf — now that's a more legitimate pedestal for him — surrounded by other glasses of various shapes and origins. The _sassiness_ of some of these immediate neighbours, though... clearly not every glass in this world runs by his standards, which is a shame. Poor babbling ignoramus, so unaware of their divine essence, the millenary dignity of their heritage, too busy as they were wondering with excitement and — should he say it? — _horniness_ about how sparkling drinks feel when they spill inside of you.

Ugh.

Then he met Her.

Humans believe that they're the ones who choose their tableware. It's probably true if you're just a dumb lurid fork, but everybody knows that in his range of prestige, it's the glass who chooses his or her master. And in the instant when Her tepid fingers met his glassy walls to put him in Her blessed plastic cart, he just _knew_. The encounter of a lifetime, compressed in the simplistic walls of a trivial furniture store. He'd have rather gone by a more mystical setting, but alas. Humans suffer from a terrible lack of imagination when it comes to grand moments.

He's been the faithful companion of Her life ever since. He's been here every time She's needed his advice, and... well She asks for it extremely often. With the exception of four extremely long hiatuses — break-ups, even, although it's never been really clear to him what wrong he'd done to Her by then — She's had Her glorious hand wrapped around his firm hardness practically every day.

He's thankful She's never spilt inside of him those profane sparkling beverages that had all the chatty girls wooing about in this hell of a store. No, his is a chalice for top-shelf nectar only. He likes the funny amber-tainted ethanol derivative She nourishes him with instead. Exults when She kisses him after, Her mouth slightly open against his rim as he trades liquor for Her love.

He's the confidant of Her mood, knows from the rhythm of Her kisses, the pressure of Her lips, the number of refills, if She's happy, or angry, or upset, revels in the soothing role that's his. Sometimes if She's feeling spicy She'll add some ice to the mix. Extreme temperatures are his kink and oh, She knows it. The chill is _dizzying_ , not cold enough to really play with his limits, sure, but it gives him a delightful taste of pain in the way his amorphous structure rigidifies.

They're great together.

Sometimes they do this thing when She shows off these two distant cousins of his — they were all part of the same melting bath in the earliest hours of their existence but ended up on different production lines, and he's proud to say that he's the eldest one — and shares their sacred moment of communion with the couple of humans She usually has ethanol orgies with. He doesn't mind the company, as long as he doesn't have to share. She's his, and his only.

It happens more and more frequently at some point.

He can tell that She goes from upset and sad to angry and frantic. Then to thrilled. And Her kisses taste like artificial cherry flavour and frankly gross organic greasy paste, which is Her way of telling him that She's particularly excited. And then it's a continuous rollercoaster bouncing up and down from scared to exhilarated, and he notices that the nectar's composition slightly changes, including headier, more exotic spices to the mix, and less poorly refined chemicals.

He doesn't know exactly what happened, but then one night She kisses him in front of a stranger without even offering the latter to commune with one of his cousins as She usually does, and he can feel the _heat_ in the air. A powerful pulse that he's hardly ever experienced ever since he left the motherly forge. He briefly wonders if the Stranger represents any kind of threat to him, but the question is pointless, as the triumphant way She shows him off in front of someone else is nothing but an irrevocable proof of Her love.

Now don't get him wrong. To him, all humans look exactly like the same puddle of soon-to-be-rotten organic goo. Their lifetime is — quite unfortunately for the love of his life — ridiculous, and there's nothing memorable about their disgusting limpness, although the legend says that there's a somehow mineral core underneath the softness. But some of the vibrations they emit speak to his atoms' natural frequency, a language he can decrypt.

For instance the main 'vibes' — in the name of Silica, what an awful term! — of Her orgiastic mates are mostly Impulsive and Guilty, with a mild range of variations. And the Stranger, his unhappy rival, is disgustingly Confident. Arrogant, even, which makes him very dislikeable, although he's not the one that She kissed that night. He doesn't really mind him, except for the heat that he perceives every time that obnoxious brat is around from that moment on.

And Her own spectrum of vibrations gets so hectic at this point that soon it becomes hard to follow.

He feels neglected. Oh, She still comes to him, probably more than She's ever had before, but it's hardly just the two of them anymore. Impulsive and Guilty, who have now shifted to Angry and Desperate are constantly here, and Her mind seems to wander elsewhere. Her kisses lack the fervour of the beginnings.

And as it goes on and on for a while, this unpleasant dynamic endlessly yo-yoing, doubt starts creeping.

He refuses to even look into the possibility that She could be cheating on him. Doesn't dignify with a second thought the rumours from the cupboard — he's never really understood why She keeps him in this humiliating inferno of mundane _wood_ instead of letting him deconstruct the daylight into a prismatic rainbow, and shine like he's meant to be in the glimmer of their love.

But the point is, the other occupants of the sinister cave _talk_ , although he doesn't trust this chatty flute who claims that she's been the witness of Her sparkling glee, or the garbled tales of this garishly daubed mug — ceramics' memory is as porous as their clayey structure and he most certainly won't listen to this chaotic oddball's mish-mash.

It throws a bit of a shade on his paradise, though, brings up itchy frustrations.

He doesn't get why She keeps him among this pedestrian crowd, not to even mention the almost daily humiliation of the large soapy box where he gets to be splashed with the obscene stench of dirty plates. If She really wants him clean as new, he'll be happy to suggest that She refines Her ethanol mixture, or even replace it with acetone, prompter to eliminate greasy residues, instead of the dishwasher nightmare.

But it's all just domestic tension, the normalcy of any relationship, as he wants to believe. He tries not to be mad at Her, still hopes for a path towards their mutual bliss from before.

Until the inconceivable happens.

One night, he gets kidnapped. A new protagonist whose vibration can only be described as Fed Up buries him in wrinkled paper — and seriously, what is going on with this ridiculous human obsession with cellulose? — to an unknown destination. And from the murmurs around, he knows that all the brother and sisters from the cupboard, even the most insufferable ones, get picked too, but this whole operation can only be directed against him. There's no point in kidnapping scatterbrain flute or rambling mug, while him... he's indeed a rival to destroy.

He gets confirmation of this last fact when the Stranger's fingers curl around his edges a few hours later before dropping him back to his cellulose nest. The comforting clatter of the metal bands adorning the human's fingers against his rim — metal being the second noblest material after glass in his opinion — is far from compensating the extent of his loss. He's not stupid. He's aware of the fact that the heat has been going on and off between the love of his life and the Stranger. At some point he'd thought that it was gone for good, and She'd been sad, mournfully nursing him late at nights, only lately it has been slowly resurrecting from its ashes.

And now this is the ultimate gauntlet thrown at his smooth cold face, and there's nothing he can do about it but dream of the Stranger combusting under the hot lava that he knows he could turn into, provided the environmental circumstances were on his side.

They're not.

And things remain unchanged for a very long period of time, weeks, months maybe — he doesn't exactly have many clues in his box, and an accurate perception of the passing of time is far down the list of the interesting perks of being made of glass. Until one day, when Fed Up, who is now fully Exasperated, comes back and brings him home, and he thinks that maybe it's his rival's way of conceding his defeat.

Their reunion is indeed Her priority since She kisses him gratefully in front of the Stranger immediately after he reintegrated his ugly cupboard and his heart would grow three sizes if he had one because henceforth nothing can stand in the way of their love. 

But then... in a horrendous turn of events, the Stranger kisses him too, unaware of the sacred bond between Her and him, and then both humans seem to compete, alternatively sucking the liquor out of him until the bottle of amber ethanol is empty. Even more concerning is the fact that the heat is back, burning and pulsing in the air, when the two of them suddenly neglect him for some obscure business he's apparently not a part of.

Which is _outrageous_.

She moans happily tough, and that's enough to make him happy, the vibrations of Her contented voice reverberating in his atoms and pleasuring him. Until She betrays him, suddenly jumping on the wooden panel he's standing on — wood, wood, wood, always this damn wood! — and pushing him away in a sudden gesture of Her forearm.

Shattering _hurts_. Badly.

She lets out a little shocked sound, a eulogy that he'll cherish in his broken shards forever, but soon She gets back to Her happy vibrations. And he knows that his life here with Her is over, but in this moment he's happy. He loves Her, and if the sacrifice of himself is what it takes to bring Her such joy, then he's accomplished his duty. And wherever he goes next, the dumb flute and drivelling mug won't be missed in his vicinity.

The heat intensifies in the room, palpable, a foreshadowing chant of the Vulcanian furnace that he for sure will meet again soon. He hopes he'll live his next shape as a bottle of this amber ethanol haunting the bottom cupboard, the guardian of Her temptations. He deserves it.

He's been a Good Glass.

**Author's Note:**

> Should I add a chapter from the I'd rather be crafting mug POV? 
> 
> Fic title from _Love on the rocks_ by Neil Diamond.


End file.
